except I can't because the Easter holidays are officially over and I refuse to accept that I've got work tomorrow (which is actually today, because it's 01:12 in the a.m.)
My four-day weekend started with a sign of things to come. I decided to treat myself to a Good Friday omelette and chips at my local cafeteria whilst scouring the Guardian jobs pages, when a strange thing happened.
Actually, it's not that strange.
I read the damn paper from cover to cover, and shat myself.
My metaphorical shitting happened as soon as I realised I AM WOEFULLY UNQUALIFIED FOR EVERY ADVERTISED POSITION, I CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT 60% OF THE JOBS ENTAIL ANYWAY, I'M NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER, AND I'M DOOMED TO A LIFETIME'S PINING FOR A DECENT WAGE I WILL NEVER GET.
So, in shock, I went home and all this weekend found myself frantically reading my entire self-penned first draft of the shittest novel ever written. It had been languishing by my bed, unread and in shame, for three months.
It is now undergoing a major second draft rewrite, mainly because I reasoned that if I'm not going to get a better job, I'd could always finish my crap novel.
Of course, the likelihood of this crap novel
a) getting finished to a level acceptable enough to attach my real name to it and
b) finding a mental agent/ publisher willing to face bankruptcy in order to publish the fucker, is slim.
However, the odds are vastly better than my only other life-improvement strategy on this spinning bastard orb we all live in: Winning the fucking lottery.
Because I quite simply can't continue in my current life, the one where dinner tonight consisted of an extra large Papa Johns pizza (the damn thing was £7.99 regardless of size - what would you do?), and where my one-time French techno-playing-at-3am-bastard-neighbour has been replaced by - I'm not kidding here - a psychopathic Polish drunk who is right this moment yelling abuse at his partner and smashing tables.
It is now 25 to 2am.